What's wrong, brother dear?
by BadWolfonBakerStreet
Summary: Mycroft comes home from university for the holidays and finds his brother in a very irritating state. And somehow they all manage to surprise each other.


Three days and the screeching wouldn't stop. Day and night Sherlock had been torturing his violin now. And when he wasn't playing – as Sherlock liked to call it – he smoked. Secretly of course. Mycroft smirked. As if his little brother could keep that a secret. Even someone without any noteworthy deduction skills would have worked that out.

Which was slightly worrying. Sherlock didn't _do_ obvious. It also was annoying because so far Mycroft hadn't managed to work out what was wrong with his little brother. And not knowing was almost worse than what Sherlock did to his violin.

After the first day he had almost asked Mummy but she hadn't mentioned anything. Maybe she just thought Sherlock had developed a new ambition for playing the violin. As soon as he'd mention something was wrong with the younger Holmes off-spring, she would start nagging Sherlock about it and in the end he wouldn't say anything.

Mycroft could either let it continue, hoping Sherlock would get over whatever it was – which didn't seem very likely – or he could talk to him. Which he despised, as did his brother.

But after the fourth night of violin screeching since he had returned from university for the Christmas holidays Mycroft decided that this was it.

It was around four in the morning when he left his bed with a sigh and put on his dressing gown. The violin was silent for now, time for a smoking break. He quietly left his room and walked down the dark corridor to Sherlock's door. There was no sound behind it. He knocked and entered without waiting for a reply.

Only the lamp on the bedside table was switched on and it took Mycroft a moment to find the figure of his brother, sitting on the window pane with his feet dangling out. He saw the rest of a cigarette disappearing into the night.

"You're lucky it's winter. Otherwise Mummy would have your head for throwing those into her roses. And please close the window, it's freezing in here."

Sherlock didn't move. No big surprise there. With a dramatic sigh Mycroft sat down on the bed and pulled his dressing gown closer around him. He waited. After a few seconds Sherlock gave an annoyed sniff, turned around, hopped into the room and finally closed the window. He turned to face his older brother and shot him an angry look. That couldn't cover the fact that his eyes were red around the edges. He looked like Mycroft always did in the spring, when the hay fever kicked in. But Sherlock had simply been crying. Which of course in Sherlock's case was far from 'simple'. The last time he had seen his little brother cry was when he fell out of a tree and broke his leg when he was seven. Now Mycroft started being seriously worried.

"What is going on?", he finally asked.

"Nothing is going on! You're the one barging in my room at four in the morning, so I should ask you." It was probably meant to sound angry and accusing but he just sounded hurt. Mycroft gave him a look saying: "Please! You know better than trying to fool me!"

"It's none of your business, Mycroft." Ah, petulant now.

"Since it's keeping me awake I rather think it is. And I thought you might be... grateful for the opportunity to talk." They both knew he wasn't. Sherlock started going through the mess on his desk, as if he was looking for something and just gave a short "Pfft".

"Tell me about her." Sherlock spun around.

"What?"

"Well, obviously the matter is of emotional nature. Your grades are as lousy as they ever were. It can't be your classmates either, you don't care about them. And it must be something new, otherwise you wouldn't be that upset about it. You are clearly having girl troubles.", Mycroft explained. For a moment Sherlock just stared at him. Then a smile started spreading on his face. Not the friendly kind. It was Sherlock's "Look at you, being an idiot!" smile.

"You are wrong.", he said triumphantly. Really? He was clearly upset but he still was gloating when his brother got something wrong? Mycroft sighed once more.

"Very well, correct me, then." The smile on Sherlock's face got wider.

"Oh no, someone as clever as you can surely figure it out. I'll talk to you about it when you have." He strode over to the door. held it open and looked pointedly at his brother.

Sherlock was very happy with the progress Mycroft was obviously not making. It has been over 24 hours now since his brother had confronted him with his theory. And so far there were no news.

Luckily.

Sherlock had been so busy being smug about Mycroft being wrong that he had stupidly agreed to talk about it when his brother would figure it out. And he really had no intention of doing that. Therefore he wasn't teasing Mycroft about his slow thinking like he would have under different circumstances.

He was surprised Mycroft hadn't tried to talk to Mummy about it. If those two decided to conspire against him he would never hear the end of it. Probably. Maybe. But then again Mummy hadn't said much about the whole matter. Sherlock had come home for the holidays a day before the older Holmes off-spring had and a letter from his school had already arrived. Her light blue eyes, the ones his resembled so much, looked at him with something that wasn't quite pity and something that was very clearly... love. She had hugged him and said: "Don't react and people will stop talking about it. But the next months will not be easy." He hadn't replied anything, he just nodded and went up to his room, his hand clutching the letter in his pocket.

Every time he read it he started crying. Partly because the rejection hurt but by now it was more the anger about his own stupidity. And that he cried made him even more angry. Crying was something for other people, for sentimental idiots! And here he was positively bawling, it was a disgrace! A glance on his watch showed it was already past 7 pm. He hurried downstairs, Mummy hated it when he was late for dinner.

For ten minutes no-one had said a word. The three of them just quietly ate, Mycroft and Sherlock mostly staring at their plates, their mother watching how the ignored each other.

"Oh, for goodness sake! Could you two please finally talk to each other? Either you will both accept that Sherlock doesn't want to talk about it or you just get it over with, so Mycroft can stop following your every movement, it's making me nervous. Just decide on something because I want my household to function properly again." The Holmes brothers first looked at their mother, the surprised expression on their faces matching, then they turned and faced each other. Sherlock put his cutlery down carefully and fixed his gaze on the napkin in his lap, pulling it straight with hasty movements. He cleared his throat.

"I am sure you remember Mr. Ashdown, the chemistry teacher, you met at the school concert you insisted on going to." He inhaled slowly. "He will not return after the Christmas holidays and so I decided it was time to tell him I am in love with him. Unfortunately when I kissed him a few of my classmates entered the room." He practically ran through the explanation, very much like one of his deductions. After a moment he had composed his face in a mask of impassiveness and looked up at his brother. Who looked thoughtful and played with the stem of his wine glass.

"I see.", he finally said, took a sip of the red wine and continued eating. Sherlock stared at him which Mycroft acknowledged with a little smile. "Did he at least kiss you back?" Their mother dropped her knife on the plate with a loud 'clank'. Sherlock was so stunned he just shook his head. "Hm. Pity. I can understand why you choose him as the object of your affection. He found him to be very smart, charming and obviously handsome. I wish he would have started teaching before I finished school." He smiled openly at his younger brother now. "But wasn't it a little childish, telling me I was wrong? I just got one little detail wrong. Not girl but boy troubles." Sherlock smirked. Mycroft was giving him something he would be more comfortable talking about. Sometime his brother wasn't a completely unbearable git.

"Nonetheless you _were_ wrong, however small the mistake. The small things can be of the utmost importance."

Mrs. Holmes sighed. So that was it then. They had talked about emotions sufficiently so it was back to trying to upstage each other now. Fine. That was not exactly how a family should spend the days before Christmas but they weren't trying to poison each other and that was probably as good as it would get. She started eating again.

"You know, I am deeply disappointed in both of you." Her sons looked at her unsure, waiting if an explanation would follow. "I was so looking forward to spoiling my grandchildren one day. I can bury those plans now." She gave both her boys a warm smile and they relaxed again and smiled back.

What was it that made it impossible for Holmes men to just sit down and talk like normal people? It would save them all so much drama! But their father had been exactly the same. It had took him two years to actually tell her he loved her. It was probably some sort of rare genetic defect.

Sherlock felt strangely calm. It was out now. _He_ was out now, so to speak. And so was Mycroft. Obviously Mycroft had come to terms with that quite a while ago. And all this time Sherlock had no idea. He had to admit, if Mycroft wanted to keep something a secret it would _stay_ a secret.

_That_. He always thought about it as _that_. Instead of calling it what it was. He was gay. And he had been very surprised when he found out. Not that any women had ever appealed to him but neither had any men.

Sherlock had just assumed this was one more thing that the rest of the world seemed to care so much about and that he was absolutely indifferent to. It would just have been one more on a long list.

And then it hit him. Yes, hit. It was like having your heart beaten out of you with a brick from the inside. And all this time he had known that it was stupid, entirely idiotic, but he couldn't stop it. However hard he tried, he couldn't fight the fluttering in his stomach at the beginning of every chemistry lesson when Mr. Ashdown entered the room. And that he found himself smiling when his teacher smiled. Or said something. Or just sat at his desk reading, while he was supposed to finish an experiment.

Love was the most irritating thing Sherlock ever had gotten himself into and he was somehow grateful that Mr. Ashdown wouldn't return after the holidays. It would make focusing so much easier. Once more his fingers found the way inside his pocket and he pulled out the letter, unfolding it carefully.

'_Dear Sherlock,_

_I am sorry about how things went this afternoon. You usually don't seem to care about people and I am very flattered that you do about me. If I would have guessed what you were up to I would have stopped you before you kissed me. I am sure you are very aware that I would never tolerate a relationship between a teacher and a student, especially a physical one._

_I just want you to know that this has nothing to do with who you are. You are the most intelligent person I have ever met and you have a big heart, even if you try to hide it. I'm sure one day you will find the person that is meant for you._

_J. Ashdown'_

The person meant for him, of course. As if there was someone like that. He sneered. And then he noticed it.

He wasn't crying. Not at all. He didn't even have the urge to. This was new. And it was good. He was beginning to be himself again. And he certainly wasn't going back to that creature he had been over the past days. All he needed to do was stay away from other people. He could do that. Yes, he could certainly do that.


End file.
